A Homecoming
Far From Home
By W. M. | 24 May 2023 | 3-Minute Read
The internet in my house cannot not support the insatiable hunger of my NBA stream, so I find myself in this 24/7 cybercafé on Observatory’s Lower Main Road - a three-minute walk from home. The place is mostly empty, with the exception of another man whose reason to be here is probably as mysterious to me as mine is to him. As the clock hits 1:30am on this late February summer night, I choose my PC station against the wall and open the stream on Firefox, goosebumps gradually draping my arms. It’s the nerves of a high-stakes moment. Of a meaningful moment. Through the computer screen, it seems like the grounds of Madison Square Garden are shaking too. I can feel the vibrations from across the Atlantic.
Carmelo Anthony is about to play his first game for the New York Knicks. The Brooklyn-born basketball prodigy has just come home via a blockbuster trade to resuscitate a moribund franchise. With him, the Knicks have their first superstar since Patrick Ewing. Melo might already be a polarizing figure, but his talent is undeniable, unmistakable. He has the gift of the great artists - neither forced nor earned, but inherited; a vessel for the self-expression of the basketball Gods.
What will follow is still unknown. A largely disappointing era of Knicks basketball due to endemic front office incompetence. A window to contention shut by untimely injuries, and shortly thereafter by a string of incoherent basketball decisions. But also some of the most grand moments in franchise history, from a record 62-point performance, to a pair of game-winning shots against Chicago, and a third-place finish in MVP voting. But at this moment in time, I have no visibility over this Jackson Pollockian mess of a legacy, yet to be projected on canvas.
As the game is about to start, and my favorite player - along with Kobe Bryant and Dirk Nowitzki - takes the court for my team donning a throwback Knicks jersey, I feel a sense of pride after years of self-doubt over the point of supporting this basketball club. My loyalty is finally rewarded. The Knicks belong in the story of the NBA and, vicariously, so do I.
The game is tight, unremarkable, yet unquestionably electric. Melo is missing shots, and the Knicks are mired in a dogfight with John Salmons and Ersan Ilyasova. The Milwaukee Bucks are even throwing Corey Maggette out there. That’s how little they give a fuck. Toney Douglas is balling out. Every hour, I go back to the counter to add credit so that I can keep watching, but it never appears that Anthony’s tenure is going to open with a memorable game.
Nevertheless, my eyes are absorbed in this regular season battle. Melo’s presence is that of a superstar. The game feels heavier. More significant. It is the weight of a future Hall of Famer, lightened only by the smooth aesthetic of his jumpshot.
Unbeknownst to me, some people will often rewrite the Melo trade or conveniently distort key elements to formulate their case against it, sometimes vehemently, even a decade from now. They will forget that Anthony would not have signed with the Knicks in free agency because of the impending lockout. They will forget that they would not have had the cap space to sign him and Tyson Chandler as free agents while also retaining Danilo Gallinari and Wilson Chandler. They will forget that these homegrown stars would not have been healthy enough to provide the support that supposedly would have put the Knicks on a path to sustained success. Omit enough details, and you can bend history to your deepest motives.
In the final minute of the game, Anthony completes his homecoming by scoring a clutch basket to lead the Knicks to victory - the first of this new chapter. After the buzzer sounds, I digest the performance for a few minutes in silence, then prepare to head home with a subdued, fleeting, but novel sense of joy. I don’t fully grasp that the trail of trauma is wrecking my twenties - I will understand that much later. I just know the last three years haven’t been easy. But for a brief period of time, in this new city I only moved in a month ago, I revel in the lightness of the moment.
As I walk home in the early hours of the morning, the Capetonian sky is undergoing its daily metamorphosis, from jet black to deep blue. The streets drowned in indigo, I can finally glimpse small parts of the prophecy. In the next few years, Melo and the Knicks will give me some memories to cherish forever, yet none more true than this one.
